Currents of an Indelible Life

I still remember the day my father died like it was yesterday.

“Your father’s dying,” my mom said when I picked up the phone. No preparation, no fanfare. She said it with all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list. There was more after that but other than the hospital name, I couldn’t tell you what else she said.

I snatched my keys off the hook by the door and left, stopping long enough to write a note to my wife and grab my wallet before starting the cross-country drive.

Almost forty years later and there are still parts of the drive that randomly come back to me in details I couldn’t recall even then. A conversation with a gas station attendant, the horrible accident on the side of the road, a handful of creative bumper stickers, or that two-thousand-pound bull wandering the side of the road after escaping some farmer’s yard. The countless therapy sessions since have helped me understand these random moments of clarity but, at the time, they didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting home.

When I walked into the hospital I was greeted by an uncomfortable number of extended family. I could tell you about my two favorite uncles—Joseph and Jim—there with their wives and kids or how my mom’s side of the family, the ones who were known to make a scene at the most inopportune moments, sat quietly in the corner, sobbing and praying. I could tell you I remembered them embracing me, offering words of love and support but I’d be lying. Unlike the spikes of rememory from my drive, everything outside of my father’s hospice room remains a blank spot in my mind. It wasn’t until I stepped through the door and saw my immediate family that the night shifted into perfect focus.

My sister, Carmen, was curled into a ball in a chair in the corner farthest from the bed, her petite frame shaking in silent agony. My mother sat in a chair next to the bed, her immaculate posture only cracking when exhaustion crept up on her. I gleaned this in a few seconds but they were lost once my eyes focused on the body swaddled in sheets, surrounded by machines.

Curtis Branson was a marvel of a man. Strong and intelligent, stern and temperamental, his was a personality that commanded the room. He radiated an energy one would expect from a head of state, not a self-employed businessman who’d retired early due to past injuries. At his best, Curtis was a magnetic sphere who pulled others into his orbit. He wasn’t overly garrulous, handsome or even kind, but he had that “it” factor; the charisma that people craved to be around. He was a promise of life and opportunity, that anything was possible. That, even in the darkest times, life was damn good and absolutely worth living.

The creature before me was not Curtis Branson.

This was an emaciated husk of death playing at being alive. Though my allergies excised my sense of smell, the scent of decay was its own otherworldly being. My father’s dark complexion was ashen and rubbery. Once chubby jowls were hollowed out and, even closed, his eyes were sunken into his skull. There was no hair to speak of save wispy tufts of white that was once a thick pride of salt-and-pepper. His skin sagged as the very cradle of life that made him human had been snuffed out and left us with this…thing.

I don’t know how long I stood there before he spoke, in a cracked whisper that nearly sent me stumbling backwards.

“It looks worse than it is.” My only response was a pained groan that, by some miracle, didn’t wake my mom and sister.

“My boy,” he said and this time his voice was stronger. “Didn’t think you would make it.”

Again, I tried to respond but his hand on mine silenced me. It was more skeletal than his face. Cold and clammy, his knuckles looked distended, like a case of advanced arthritis. Still, his grip was firm, unrelenting.

“Dad,” I rasped, speaking for the first time in hours. What happened? That’s what I wanted to say but the words never came. I stared at him, the first sting of tears swelling as I took in the man that taught me baseball, riding a bike, balancing a checkbook.

He shook his head and even that seemed to sap his strength. “Cancer. Metastasized. Doesn’t matter.” I started to speak but he squeezed my hand uncomfortably hard.

“But how?” I managed, my vision blurring from the tears that finally decided to form. “It’s only been—” I started to say a few weeks but I hadn’t been home in more than a year. With that revelation came shame, a thirsty creature that left bloody slashes of guilt in my very soul.

“Tommy Boy,” he said and smiled weakly. He had lost several teeth but the ones that remained were nearly perfect, if not a bit stained. “Mom told me what you’ve been doing. For your community…for us. I never would have asked.” I knew that; Dad was proud, like so many men from his generation. In itself, it wasn’t overtly negative. Raised in a time where words like ‘colored’, ‘negro’, and worse were spoken freely, without that pride or stubbornness, I doubt he would have done as well as he did in life. But strength can sometimes transform into a weakness right under our noses. Thankfully, Mom didn’t have the same hang-up in asking for help.

“I can’t thank you enough, son. Neither can they,” he nodded blindly towards the sleeping women. “I just…I’m so proud of you. The man you are. How far you’ve come. Where you’ll go.” He sighed and even though his grip remained steady, I thought he’d fallen asleep.

“My ring, on the table.” His words were softer now, as if he was fighting sleep. I looked over at the table and there it was, in all its gold and silver glory. He released my hand and I picked up the ring. How many times had I caught glimpses of it over the years, never was able to actually see it? He’d never taken it off and any time I got too curious about it; he’d flick me away with the warning that it wasn’t for me—until it was.

Until it was.

“My chest in the shed,” he followed, even softer still. “You’ll know, Thomas. You’ll know.”

I wanted to ask how but then my father coughed, gasped and, just that quickly, was gone.

It wasn’t until later that I realized he’d never opened his eyes.

***

My wife and I handled the funeral arrangements, and though she was heartbroken for me, reminded her husband that we were a team and, in that, there was a duty to share both the good and bad. I couldn’t disagree and promised to do better.

It was a few hours after everyone had left the house, with Mom and Carmen nodding off by the fireplace with my wife vowing to watch over them that I made my way to the shed. I played with the ring—my dad’s ring—as I trekked towards it. I put it on minutes after he died and, despite it being a bit big for my finger, had yet to remove it.

The shed was in the back corner, hidden away by the decades of tools my dad had collected. It was like a religious zeal he had, keeping them clean and oiled, and the chest was no different. It was a rich mahogany that, even after weeks left untended, gleamed from the shed’s light. I knelt in front of it and slid my fingers across the top and marveled at the smoothness. It was immaculate. It shouldn’t have been surprising, considering his dedication for keeping things tidy.

It didn’t take long for me to realize the ring’s purpose. The lock was etched with the same flowing symbols as the ring. I removed the ring, pressed it into the lock and twisted. There was no audible click, just a gentle pressure releasing. My heart pulsed wildly and the accompanying shortness of breath would have, at any other time, given me pause. Instead, I soldiered on and opened the chest.

I don’t know what I expected—perhaps picture albums or old papers. Maybe, as the kid that still dwelled within me surmised, a golden treasure. It was none of those things. No, that’s not true. What I found was a treasure more precious than anything my mind could have ever conceived.

Laying in haphazard stacks, were dozens of leather-bound journals. Each embossed with detailed scenes taken from the pages of fantasy. Centaurs, dragons, knights, and everything in between jumped from the leather as if living and breathing entities. I picked the one on the top—and the dizzying feeling of déjà vu washed over me.

I’d seen these images somewhere but the truth danced away from me. Instead of chasing it, I opened the book. It didn’t take long for me to realize what these were. My father’s journals. I flipped through another one. And then another. It was his life, written in his words. Seventy years of pain, heartache, love, and joy. Of successes and failures. Of the people that came in and out of his life.

I don’t know how long I sat there, reading through those journals. I laughed and cried, whooped in surprise and cursed in anger. I loved and respected (along with a healthy bit of fear) my old man and I always thought we got along well enough. But as I read through the pages of his life, I realized I never truly knew him. It hurt, never seeing this side of him but the wonder of experiencing Curtis Branson’s life in his own words canceled out that pain.

***

My father’s been dead thirty years now and tomorrow I’ll officially be older than him when he died. There are things I’ll always remember; the timber of his voice when he yelled or the tic of his left when he tried (and failed) to keep from laughing. But I can’t quite remember his smile or what he’d say to me before bed. As I get older, more of those memories may fade but I know my father will never be forgotten. A chest of journals will keep him alive…even after I’m gone.

I didn’t have kids until after he was gone and despite my own recollection, no greater gift for my children to know their grandfather than these books. In these past years, they speak of him as if they’d grown up with him in their lives. In a way, I guess they have. Whether it was accident or design, my father ensured that his was a life never to be forgotten.

For me, my kids, and the family that comes after we are gone, there’s not a greater gift in the world my father could have given me.